It's obvious, really
by belikebumblebee
Summary: Alexis reflects on her father's relationship with Det. Beckett.


I drive the key in the lock and turn it, the door opens with a _click_.

»I'm home!«, I call, but there is no answer. Instead, I find a post-it on the fridge:

_Someone died! _

_Grandma is with her (crazy) friends from Yoga. _

_You'll find left overs in the fridge and money on the counter. _

_Don't stay on the phone with Ashley all night! _

_xx Dad_

And below, on another one:

_Just a little crazy. _

_Be grateful, child, they promote your books like they're getting paid for it! _

_But I'm not with them anymore - I got a date with a mystery man I met in the Café. _

_I'll let you know whether he's a madman or not._

Smiling at the strange ways of communication in the Castle household, I open the refrigerator. Look inside. Nothing interesting. Close it again. Think I'll order something.

It's eerily quiet around the house when my father's not around. He always makes some kind of noise. Music playing. Laser game. Keyboard clicking. Mumbling on the phone.

It's reassuring, really. As he is most of the time.

I walk into his room, sit down on his chair. I would never spy on him. Go through his stuff without his consent. Or read his mail. Not that he hides anything from me.

I know all his passwords. But I don't use them. Not even when I'm tempted. (I'm tempted.)

The room is neat and tidy, which is surprising, now that I think about it: One could think that Richard Castle, the funny guy with the brilliant mind, would be too caught up in his own world to concentrate on stuff like tidiness. We never had a cleaning lady, though:

we always did it together once a week when I was younger, the big cleaning party. We used to put some music on and scrub through the entire house, eliminating dust and dirt - he killed all the spiders, I filled the dish washer, he ironed our clothes, I put the garbage outside. Grandma, meanwhile, put on a fancy outfit and dusted the TV for half an hour.

We still do that sometimes, but mostly, everyone does his part whenever we get the time.

Dad keeps photos in his room. Most of them display the colorful evolution of me. Pictures of me and Mom, pictures of me on the beach, pictures of me reading, pictures of Dad and me playing adventurous games, there is even a picture of me and Ash. (I like that. A lot.)

There are pictures of him and his wives - he never got rid of those, and I like that, too. Because he doesn't just throw someone out of his life. Pictures of people he met on his journeys when he was really, really young. Pictures of people who helped him with his books. Pictures of his card-playing-mystery-author-club-thing.

He really knows a lot of people. Pictures of Grandma. Pictures of him and Grandma, when he was a kid. Dad used to look vulnerable, I think. Boyish.

And, finally, pictures of him and his friends from the precinct. At the Auld Haunt, at work, on parties. I like them, too. I like the way they take me seriously and don't treat me like an infant. Though I am, technically. They even got me something for my birthday, all together. It was Beckett who gave it to me, she swung by only for that.

She is in six pictures. Four of them are group photos of all of them. One is a picture of her alone, probably taken by Dad, because she doesn't look in the camera but at the person behind it, with a mixture of amusement, annoyance and affection.

As far as I can tell, she has that look around him a lot.

The last picture is large, and it displays Dad and her together. Lanie took it, if I remember correctly. They're outside, at a crime scene, perhaps, coffee in their hands, facing each other, fiercely discussing. There is a note on it with a black pen against the white sky_: _

_Photographic Proof: Yes, you DO finish each other's sentences. Witnesses: Lanie, Javier & Kevin._

Yes, I imagine they do. Dad looks older on that photograph. Older than normally, I mean. Not in a bad way, though. Grown up. I guess. Feels weird.

I have never lacked anything in my life. My father gave me everything that I needed - and sometimes what I didn't need but wanted.

He has always been kind of cheery, so I never really questioned his happiness. But I suppose his ever changing relationships were kind of a give-away.

That he lacked something, I mean. When I ask him, he says that he was too young when he married Mom, and too passionate when he married Gina.

But still: Coming to think of it, he has always been... unsettled, when it came to women. He never seemed like he was done. Not that I spent very much time thinking about it, then. Nobody wants to think about their parent's love life. Especially not when they have walls as thin as ours. Ew. I grimace and shake my head.

Somehow, it's a little tragic, I think. That he has found what he lacked but doesn't seem to reach it. Putting the photo back on its place, I turn away from the shelf.

I like Beckett. I respect her. I even trust her, in some kind of way.

But my father is my father, and sometimes I wish he would feel that way for someone else. Because yes, she makes him grow up some more, and I know that's a good thing, but I'm afraid she might break him in the process.

They don't see it that way, I think.

Everybody else sees it, the way they become so... absorbed in each other.

I remember the day she was shot, I remember it sharp and clearly. And I never expected a day like that.

My father had gone with Ryan and Esposito, I will never forget the look on his face.

It keeps coming back to me from time to time.

Grandma was quietly sitting with Mr. Beckett - she later explained to me that when your child may or may not be waking up again, you can use someone to sit with you who understands what it's like to be a parent.

I stood by the window and looked outside. Not that I really saw anything. I had a zillion thoughts in every second. Which meant that I didn't have a single one.

At some point, Lanie joined me. We stared outside together. And then I heard myself say something, completely out of the blue, I didn't really think about it. Otherwise I would've noticed that it wasn't the appropriate time for that question.

»Does she care about him?«

Some time passed. An eternity. It may have been night outside when she answered, without looking at me. We were still staring. There was nothing but tired dispassion in her voice.

»If anyone ever cared about someone else: Yes.«


End file.
